A Bread + Butter Origin Story
In Shakespeare’s The Tempest, King Alonso asks, “How camest thou in this pickle?” If you put that question to Vaughan — code name Peter — he would take you on a small diversion down memory lane to a little Northern Virgina town in the Blue Ridge Mountains on the banks of the Shenandoah River. Here he would introduce you to Ruth Monnington, aka my nana.
Nana famously once said, “I always considered sleeping a waste of time”. She was the most energetic and tirelessly capable person you could ever hope to meet, beyond excellent at: teaching grade school, training animals, playing bridge, arranging flowers, sewing clothes, decorating rooms, throwing parties, growing food and feeding people. She did most of these tasks while wearing a full face of makeup and wedge heels.
She grew up in West Virginia and then settled on seven acres of Virginia farm country, made fertile thanks to the horses she and my grandfather raised. Right into her 80s, she tore around that property on a ride-on mower and kept every blade of grass in its place. They ran a herd of beef cattle on their farm down the road and she grew every vegetable and fruit under the Old Dominion sun.
There’s no food on the planet that compares to her cooking. Country ham to bring a tear to your eye. Peach pie with that flaky flaky crust that only comes with a close relationship with lard. Legendary burgers. Fried chicken for which there are no words. Hand-churned banana ice cream. As kids, we never complained about vegetables in her house because if you add enough butter to anything, it becomes irresistible. And she always added enough butter to everything.
All the stuff from the garden that we didn’t cram down our throats got frozen or canned or fed to the animals (all of which were extremely fat.) In spite of our very best efforts at consumption, her cucumber husbandry was just a little too successful most years. So she always made bread & butter pickles.
When Vaughan first rolled up her long, winding driveway and wrapped his mouth around one of these said pickles, there was no turning back. My aunt carried on making the recipe after Nana passed away. But eventually Vaughan’s demand exceeded my aunt’s supply, so he had to learn to make them himself. I’m not saying that Vaughan married me to gain access to the recipe. But also ... I don’t think I can rule it out.
SIDE NOTE
Why do Americans call this kind of non-fermented brined pickle a bread & butter pickle? I always thought it was because they were eternally on the table, alongside the staples like salt, pepper, bread and butter. But another theory is that people would often trade homegrown cucumbers or home canned brined pickles with their local grocer for staples (like bread and butter) instead of using money. Because money doesn’t grow on trees! But cucumbers do! (Kind of.)